Helen Irene Banks, 91, of Mesa, Arizona passed away on May 21, 2006 surrounded by loved ones. Helen was born on July 20, 1914 to Malinda Houlton and John Patton in Pleasant Lake, Indiana. She was the second of twelve children. She had four children namely Roy, Marjorie, Loretta, and Glenn. Her love for creative poetry, oil painting, and genealogy will be left for her posterity. She earned the Golden Poetry Award with her poem Childhood Craze about her growing up years. We will miss her wonderful massages that showed her Christ-like compassion. She was active in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. She is survived by her son Glenn L. Banks, Sr. Funeral services will be held on Saturday, May 27, 2006 at the Mesa Salt River Stake Center on 6942 E. Brown Rd. at 9:00am. Viewing will be at 8:00am. Burial will be at Mountain View Memorial Gardens.
Helen
Irene Banks, 91, of Mesa, Arizona passed away on May 21, 2006
surrounded by loved ones. Helen was born on July 20, 1914 to Malinda
Houlton and John Patton in Pleasant Lake, Indiana. She was the second of
twelve children. She had four children namely Roy, Marjorie, Loretta,
and Glenn. Her love for creative poetry, oil painting, and genealogy
will be left for her posterity. She earned the Golden Poetry Award with
her poem Childhood Craze about her growing up years. We will miss her
wonderful massages that showed her Christ-like compassion. She was
active in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. She is
survived by her son Glenn L. Banks, Sr. Funeral services will be held on
Saturday, May 27, 2006 at the Mesa Salt River Stake Center on 6942 E.
Brown Rd. at 9:00am. Viewing will be at 8:00am. Burial will be at
Mountain View Memorial Gardens. - See more at:
http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/azcentral/obituary.aspx?n=helen-irene-banks&pid=17874407&fhid=2376#sthash.pauL54OZ.dpuf
Helen
Irene Banks, 91, of Mesa, Arizona passed away on May 21, 2006
surrounded by loved ones. Helen was born on July 20, 1914 to Malinda
Houlton and John Patton in Pleasant Lake, Indiana. She was the second of
twelve children. She had four children namely Roy, Marjorie, Loretta,
and Glenn. Her love for creative poetry, oil painting, and genealogy
will be left for her posterity. She earned the Golden Poetry Award with
her poem Childhood Craze about her growing up years. We will miss her
wonderful massages that showed her Christ-like compassion. She was
active in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. She is
survived by her son Glenn L. Banks, Sr. Funeral services will be held on
Saturday, May 27, 2006 at the Mesa Salt River Stake Center on 6942 E.
Brown Rd. at 9:00am. Viewing will be at 8:00am. Burial will be at
Mountain View Memorial Gardens. - See more at:
http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/azcentral/obituary.aspx?n=helen-irene-banks&pid=17874407&fhid=2376#sthash.pauL54OZ.dpuf
Helen
Irene Banks, 91, of Mesa, Arizona passed away on May 21, 2006
surrounded by loved ones. Helen was born on July 20, 1914 to Malinda
Houlton and John Patton in Pleasant Lake, Indiana. She was the second of
twelve children. She had four children namely Roy, Marjorie, Loretta,
and Glenn. Her love for creative poetry, oil painting, and genealogy
will be left for her posterity. She earned the Golden Poetry Award with
her poem Childhood Craze about her growing up years. We will miss her
wonderful massages that showed her Christ-like compassion. She was
active in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. She is
survived by her son Glenn L. Banks, Sr. Funeral services will be held on
Saturday, May 27, 2006 at the Mesa Salt River Stake Center on 6942 E.
Brown Rd. at 9:00am. Viewing will be at 8:00am. Burial will be at
Mountain View Memorial Gardens. - See more at:
http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/azcentral/obituary.aspx?n=helen-irene-banks&pid=17874407&fhid=2376#sthash.pauL54OZ.dpuf
I met her at church, and I scanned a stack of poems she had saved over the years. The scanning was pretty poor. It looks like I proofread some of the poems, but, not being very inspired by the poems, I gave up pretty quickly.
Here is the stack.
APACHE JUNCTION
Near the mountain of ‘Superstition”,
Lies the town of “Apache junction”
It used to be a~rural area,
With dog and coyote howls to scare ya’
Now it is a charming little town,
With homes and trailer courts all around.
Many nationalities it’s got,
It has become a great melting pot.
it’s government has had growing pains,
To keep up with all of its new gains.
With simple western style they all dress
Education and culture they all stress.
It’s noted for it’s “Rodeo Days”,
Where the horses, cows and people play.
Apache Junction is the place to be,
With all it’s surrounding scenery.
Come and see for yourself, if you dare,
And truly get love from those that care.
Double Blind Love
It was a verdict to live six months or less,
A call to Lucy from Mark’s mother did bless.
Her with a friendship of a boy that was bind,
And knowing she could help, she didn’t mind.
Mother said, “Check on Mark while I’m away.”
They talked and talked,on the telephone each day.
Occasionally some errands Lucy would run,
This gave him strength and courage to o’r come.
For a cancerous brain tumor he did have,
Humor from jokes and pranks was the healing salve.
Now ten years have passed and he is still alive?
But will never be able to work 9 to 5.
Six months he has toiled to write a thank-you note,
He has learned to believe in himself he wrote.
Her giggles and laughter made a happy face,
He says she brought him out of his hiding place.
He now has a mother and a mom too,
They love him dearly for the things he can do.
She wants him to know the happiness this brought,
To know of the thanks for the lessons she taught.
Now Lucy told me this story so very dear,
Then asked me to write a poem he could hear,
And state that same great love exists in her mind,
She’s truly his mom and is also blind.
By Helen Banks
MY VALENTINE
True he was my Valentine)
Because we were married at that time.
He says I’m proud you are my wife,
So he really does light up my life.
Never a dull moment at home,
With Tippy our dog and his bone.
Nothing we own has been a loss,
When I let him think he is the boss.
A Valentine Poem by Helen Banks, published in
The Mesa Tribune in February 1983.
For Montgomery and Henry (My Missionaries.)
A Korean and an American
Join forces with “Gods Holy Plan”
Two lovely Missionaries are they
Keeping Gods commandments every day
They study and prostelyte with might
Early to rise and bed late at night
With startling Truths and with his name
The church of Jesus Christ they proclaim
To converts that will hear it
Nothing else can replace his spirit
The Holy Priesthood has the power
To heal and comfort them every hour
It’s Leaders are our servants today
They serve with vigor and without pay
For these they search the ~openminded
To restore the gospel to those blinded
By false docterines of other churches
To satisfy their many searches
Few teens give two years and even pay
So great is the knowledge they portray
In 1991 their tasks begun
At east Mesa and Thunder Mountain
To change lives you can bet
Happiness is the reward they get
Now when home to go, the time will come
“ The best years of my life will be their song
MY SPECIAL BOY
James Sharp is a special bog this Christmas I will enjoy.
And say that I’m glad that he is mine, because his ideals are fine.
His body is clean and alive. For education he does strive.
No vices like most college boys. That’s what Grandma M” enjoys.
They have a bond of love that’s there, to show others that they care.
This is what Christ wants for us, to do for him at Christmas.
Written by Helen Banks for Lucille Martineau (lggO)
for her to send him in his Christmas card.
N
r
MY NEIGHBOR AND FRIEND
(RUTH KLEINHEKSEL)
Kleinheksel Is a strange name because from Norway they came.
Ruth has a close knit family that greets her on her 75th birthday.
Because her first name Is Ruth, she’s gentle & kind, that is the truth.
Her day we like to remember on the 14th of December (1990).
Now she is old and getting grey and welcomes all who come her way.
She says “come in & have a seat; I’ll see what I can get to eat.”
Children & Grandchildren many, she’s gained the name of “Nanny.”
She enjoys all their names and plays with them their games.
This gal lives on my street. To know her sure has been neat.
For transportation we do go, with many that we love so.
To lots of Bingo’s far and near, when one of us wins, we do cheer
We’ve shared many giggly times, as we tried to stretch our dimes.
Time will tell when this will end. I’ll never forget my close friend.
Written by Helen Banks, 216 N. 66th Way, Mesa, Arizona
I
OUR HOULTON HERITAGE
Remember when you were a Houlton?
You are an intelligent person.
If the mind and body does not clash,
You will never - never be called trash.
John Houlton Is the one we revere,
And that’s why we could all be here.
Great pioneer grandmothers to us,
From Sarah Fee and Nancy Lewis.
Descendents from their many children,
Many of them have gone to heaven.
Seven generations are we,
A lovely program we all came to see.
Because heritage has been our gift,
We are known for labor and thrift.
Here with lots of great leaders from these,
With great talents we hope will please.
Today is the 10th Reunion,
Choice tales to tell and communion.
Hamilton Dekalb Indiana?
A great hall with a piano.
Real good music and lots of food.
ht.~. Bow ~pur heads and thank the Lord.
Written by Helen Banks for the 105th Houlton Reunion, 1990.
SURE THING
When a cat say’s “Meow”,
Right then our dog says, “Bow Wow”.
A sure fight right now.
A Japanese Haiku 5 + 7 + 5 syllable poem.
Ralph & Raphael Boccio 1~$emorial ~ward
Lyric for a Song
HAPPINESS
Oh! Happy days since you are free
My love for you will always be
I recall when we skipped the rope
My heart beat then and always hope
Some day we wouln’t just be friends.
Now marr ed life with love begins
You are the light that makes me shine
I am so proud that you are mine.
LONELY BLUES
I thought you loved me enough to be true.
I’m lonely and blue since I’m without you.
Now you want to make up and make amends.
I pray each day that this misery ends.
I hope we can meet on the same old street,
And hear the sweet patter of our feet,
Then with open arms to hold all your charms
Please sweetheart will you mend my broken heart?
Why are things so wrong since you have gone?
Now let us be smart, never again to part.
Written for song poems of 1985 contest.
CHARLES DICKENS
Charles Dickens was an English novelty
Who lived from eighteen twelve to eighteen seventy.
At Chatham, in school, learned the golden rule.
Two years there he was, then to London, because.
Imprisoned his Dad, when bad debts he had.
Embittered Charles became because of his name.
Struggle was his mother’s to support seven brothers
He loved the theater, longed to be an actor.
Hard work did he at a shoe black factory.
Nights in streets he spent, weekends at home he went.
When a legacy he got, father was let out.
Reporters they were, after schooling some more.
Loved museums he said, many books read.
His life’s writing begun at age twenty-one.
He published a book from hard lessons took.
“Plckwick Papers” brought fame so poetry was his game.
He exposed life’s evils and works of the devils
This created reform and made England warm.
He had a good life ‘til his Sis caused strife.
He soon became wealthy and overworked unhealthy.
A parliament recorder helped establish more order.
Twice visited United States, died as Godshill estates.
Wesminister Abby surroundings not shabby.
Buried in Poets corner, his writings live longer.
Written as subject for 1985 contest.
GOOD OLD MARSHALL HIGH
Seventy-seven graduates were we,
On a stage for all to see.
Mayor Brooks was so wise,
Told of changes in our lives.
One by one we all did get
A graduation certificate.
We remember to this day
Happy times of yesterday.
We’re thankful we are still alive
As each year, fewer survive.
Now today perhaps we may
Think of those who’ve passed away.
In Marshall, that holy place,
We meet again face to face.
It’s great f or each one to see
And think of how we used to be.
On our faces is a bloom
To know each one in the room.
Now today we’re old and grey,
With aches and pains to delay.
Some with crutches or a cane,
But you don’t hear them complain.
When speech is being reserved
And dinner is being served.
Then the program is announced
That faithful officers will pronounce.
Most persons add to it some
And are glad that they did come.
A collection must be taken,
So debts can be forgotten.
After closing prayer is said,
Most want to go home to bed.
They have a year to recall
Great things about one and all.
To return to our Alma Mater,
Nothing else will matter.
Chances are not bleak, I fear,
About the same crew next year.
Our Virginia is not a state,
She is the one we emulate.
For gathering this lovely clan
‘Til age overcomes to disband.
•We have a bond-like family
For the whole wide world to see.
‘3
Poem written for my 56th Class Reunion, September 1 989.
WALTER WHITMAN
Walter Whitman, a robust man was he,
But we remember his poetry.
Born in 1819, died in 1892,
At Brooklyn he attended school.
He ran errands for leading men,
So typesetting he learned then.
Filled with unrest a carpenter, by God.
Thru U.S. and Canada he trod.
Came the Civil War with all it horrors,
Where he visited his wounded brother.
There he remained an army nurse,
Stayed there until there was peace.
He earned a clerkship in Washington,
With published books his career begun.
Critics saw obscenity and gave abuse,
But many glOrified the cause.
He cared not what the people thought,
The way he dressed or books he bought.
Partly paralyzed in 1873,
At Camden he wrote more poetry.
Leaves of Grass. November TaDs and Boughs
Are some that filled his hours.
Best ones are the O.e.atLLQLLIn.c.Q.]ri,
And CaDtain Oh CaDtaln the Tr1D’s Done.
These tell his energy so grand,
And shows why they were in demand.
A thirst for knowledge filled his breast,
All vivid readers to this attest.
His wit will surprise you It’s true,
And will keep you from feeling blue.
It was Camden to the very end,
Let’s enjoy his poetry, my friend.
Written as subject for 1 985 contest.
I have a nephew so very dear, that news from him I love to hear.
We chatted several months ago, about the things we use to do.
Write me a poem he told me, about fishing when I was three.
It was early on a foggy morn, I heard him blow his little horn.
“My friends ore at school today. I can’t find any who will play.”
“Come get me too,” he did say. I was fishing out in a bay.
big brown eyes broke my defense, ‘tll he climbed aboard In suspense.
To show everyone was his wish, of how he’d catch a big fish.
I told him I’d make him a line, if he would sit still and mind.
He disliked the oar on his seat, and shoved it in the lake so neat.
grabbed his feet and said “YOU NIT”, when it took him along with
In front of me I made him sit, after the scare in the boat pit.
Then he caught a fish so fine, over the side with hook and line.
“Let’s go in” he did chime, until on the shore he did climb.
I’m warning him about his son, “Teach him to fish while he is young.
And take some life jackets along, ‘tll “See my fish” will be his song.
$4s narrow escape we did hide. Now mom knows the other side.
His
I it.
Written by Helen Banks, 216 N. 66th Way, Mesa, Arizona 65207 (1990)
RE’ — Antonio Qiraudier Mward
F~pressive of Harmony
H ARM A NY
Oh, he is such a little mite,
Very little food can he bite
GtnLLe ~.oft and furry to touch
Most mormons love him very much
Pigg er and bipger he rrrows
?Kith & long or snubbed nose,
Usually he is protected
Oft times he is neglected.
Owners tend hic every whim
Talk to Vets All about him
He feeds and protects to the end
So is called Master’s best friend.
Ferocious, tame, and wild ones too,
Usually obey when he’ a told to
Watch clogs, lap dogs — meanderers
Hunters, work dogs and retrievers
They, faithful servants are most all
And do respond to beck and call.
Some grieve at their roaster’s grave
Others wilJ. drowning nersons save
Thi.s makes close bonds, now you can see
That seldom ever can broken be.
They are man’s protection at rest
‘Via Harmony — “The very best”.
OUR DEPENDENCE UPON GOD AND EARTH
This vast order and design
has to be from a master mind.
The farm needs farmers
and computers designers.
Genesis tells of the birth,
of the clouds and then the earth.
Vegetation, fish and fouls,
then man and animals.
Earth is made up of matter,
minds and souls all together.
A creator there must be
to make a man or a tree.
Who can make a molecule
that would have a living soul?
Or a machine like a living plant?
Now I’m sure you and I cant.
Now think how many hours
to make leaves, stems and flowers.
Or one simple little spruce
that continues to reproduce.
We couldn’t breathe without plants,
without us leaves wouldn’t dance.
All need wind, rain, fire and water,
sun, moon, stars —— and a father.
If we keep his commands,
life eternal God sends.
That man could really have joy
and create a gIrl or boy.
This universe is greater than we,
our body’s greater than a tree.
Believe in God my friend,
without beginning or end.
To this science will agree,
cot-ne, seek knowledge and better be.
Then with God and Christ we’ll dwell
and be spared from Satan and Hell.
Written as a subject for 1955 contest.
CHR I STMAS
A star the wisemen did find,
because God gave Christ to mankind.
They followed it from the east
to find parents, babe and beast.
All lying in a manger,
cause no room for a stranger.
In churches, large masses tell
all things about that so well.
Speeches are made in every tongue,
gifts are given and carols sung.
He died to save you and me
when he was hanged on that tree.
Many traditions of old
oft’ tell this story so bold.
Festivals are held everywhere,
cards are sent by those who care.
Saint Nick or Santa so jolly
comes with mistletoe and holly.
Old legends from out of the past
will make all the customs last.
Right now in so many lands
are lots of customs and bands.
So commercial it is now,
that “Back to Christ” is the vow.
Written as a subject for 1985 contest.
A
A PRAYER FOR PEACE
A balloon is sent up into space,
To a person of any race.
That finds the same and will reply,
To my poem from out of the sky.
It bears the message of world peace,
In hopes that guns will forever cease.
To kill a human in our world,
Then all flags can be unfurled.
United we could all become,
With love enhanced for everyone.
It would erase much of our pain,
And God would bless us all again.
Written and tied to 1 of 4,000 balloons released in Washington DC.,
2 September 1989 at the Hilton Hotel.
I
BINGO!
If you’ve never tried Bingo,
Your life is in limbo.
It has become a great fad,
A game for the good and bad.
When ‘tis time for to leave,
Nothing else matters, do b’lieve.
Few men ever want to try,
If he doesn’t win he will cry.
Remember now I just lent,
T’was my money we just spent.
Men are ready first when you looked,
If he ever does, he’ll get hooked.
After c’lecting all your pals,
Most of them are older gals.
Through the traffic all cars click,
Then favorite numbers are picked.
Now their blood rushes like hell,
“Time to start!” most of them yell.
When the lucky gal is found,
On the table she will pound.
Happiness is on her face,
Moans you hear all over the place.
“In the pool you go” most chimes,
If she wins two or three times.
Money is put in her pocket,
And she never does get wet.
“Shake it up”, caller is told,
Til back at them he will scold.
Most drinks at intermission,
Cookies snitched without permission,
Percentage low of those that win,
But loves enhanced with a friend.
Home to bed they all will go,
And on their face is a glow.
Next A.M. the phone will ring.
“YesI Where is it at? Sure thingl”
After winning Golden Poets Award of 1989,
I was challenged to write this at East Mesa Senior Center.
MY CHILDHOOD CRAZE
My childhood craze was wildwood days.
Poor as could be, climbing every tree.
Berries every place, dirty hands and face.
Butterflies so pretty, catch one a duty.
At the old fishing hole, sticks for a pole.
Caught with a wand, frogs in the pond.
Spearing in icehouse, quiet as a mouse.
Trapping by books and hunting in nooks.
Put meat on table. Said prayers when able.
Ice blocks a must with ice chests that rust.
Then many moves with coal and oil stoves.
Before it was banned, five hundred quarts canned.
Saved every twig, helped butcher a pig.
Simple games played, happy hours made.
Barefoot on hot days, caused wounds always.
Diseases to fight meant doctors at night.
Then the wartime flu sure weakened us too.
Hot irons from stoves, ironed clothes that froze.
Christmas meant new sleds, sleep in feather beds.
Ice skates that clamp, we’d fall and get damp.
Very little light to study at night.
House dances were fun when dating begun.
Parents at doors to check late hours.
Most people good stock, with never a lock,
If I could live o’er, those hours I’d adore.
Written for May 1 989 Golden Poets award.
World of Poetry will publish and also
American Poetry Association in February 1990 in their poets books.
.1
THE GREYHOUND TRIP
On a very bright day, take the Greyhound way.
They seldom are late, now isn’t that great?
Riding is a pleasure with memories to treasure.
The people so dear come from far and near.
Life stories they tell so wonderfully well.
Their friendships so cleaver may last forever.
From city to city, the scenery so pretty.
Seniors with their rates are helped through the gates.
Weather sure can change out there on the range.
Usually at trails end you’ll meet a friend.
Sometimes with a kiss —- but remember this,
When vacation is o’er, new bus number and door.
Their motto is thus, “Leave the driving to us.”
Courtesy is their creed, they fill every need.
Return is the same, but a brand new game!
Written in
at
1 985 after meeting Eddie Lou Cole, a famous poet,
Phoenix Bus Station during trip to Oregon.
Greyhound could not publish this
but sent a $1 0.00 coupon toward any of their trips.
NURSERY RHYMES
Leaders, visitors and all, kids large and small,
Some dragged or fall clear down the hall.
Laughter and tears with frowns and fears,
After Mom clears, their smile appears.
A prayer is said, some put to bed.
Small fights today, or cry they may.
One bumps his head as Johnny plays dead.
With toys they p.lay, old clothes and clay.
Shears or a game, crayolas, “Their name”.
Then drinks galore, some spilt on the floor.
They’reriever the same, some even are lame.
Cars are tossed, refreshments do cost.
Jokes, poems they know, some love to sew.
Trips are bossed, but none are lost.
They sure do grow, loves with them so.
Nursery is o’er, Mom’s at the door.
That doll’s mine, I lost a dime.
She calls their name, picks up the lame.
Pulls them from nooks, takes coats from hooks.
Mom’s spirit is tame from toil and pain.
She takes last looks, gathers up books.
“Bye Granny” they chime, “See ya next timel”
I
To be published by Sparrowgrasss Poetry Forum of 1990.
Written in 1960’s when caring for Relief Society children
in Scottsdale 1 st Ward.
//5 — rd.gar Allen ~oe Memorial Vrard
EWr~F iT.LEN POE
The man we should know is Edgar Allen Poe
He was a real woet, most of us know it
Born on Boston’s shore, he died in Baltimore
O~hane1 you see, when his parents died of T.B.
Rich man of Richmond saw his condition, adopted
By John Allen, td school he sent him.
With ;llen his name and literature his game
A ganbler he was and Allen’s love lost.
To the Army he went and then to West Point.
Rebellious he became, dismissed by the same
With this profession, he entered competition.
At times living well, some, destitute as hell
It goes on and on his love of Byron
In his lyric form and style so warm
His critical tales made him many sales
In United States: also England Be—Gates!
He analysed the unreal, then married a good girl,
Very soon she was gone when he wouldn’t reform.
Tho many a friend tried his nature to bend
When election was called, eleven places he held
None of these he tried——after six days he died.
Buried in Baltimore, his works will live ever.
1. The Raven
2. The Bells
3. The Gold Bug
4. The Fall of the House
of Usher
5. The Murders in the Rue
Morgue
6. 5nabel Lee
7. Lenore
8. Tsrofel
9. The tbmain of Arnheim
l’l. Po~s by Edgar Allen Poe
11. Narrative of ~rthur Gordon Pym
of Nantucket
12. The Ooncholeogists
15. Tales of the
Grotesque
14. Tales
l~5. The Prose Romances
of Edgar Allen Poe
16. The Raven and other
P0 ems
17. Mesmerism in Srticulo
Morti a
18. Eureka
19. A.Prose poem
P~5~ Could have been more
Vi />
#29 — Maurice Nrnelle
“Poetry of Perfume” Award
PERThME
Rh! the beautiful scent of perfume
Are little oil sacs of flowers in bloom
Millions of then are boiled in a vat
Doesn’t this surprise you about that?
The oil is separated from the rest
Making perfume of the best.
Some oil remains in this matter
To make Rose and Lavender water.
Red Cedar and Sandlewood are shaved
One and Sweet flag roots are saved
Still other perfume is called Pomade
With flowers and hot oil this is made.
Some perfume is produced in Turkey
But France has the biggest industry.
Now all this process may soon be gone
as chemists using a process long
Make fragrances the same as in flowers
To delete the agricultural hours.
Still fragments from chemists or plants
Will delight people and make then dance.
No comments:
Post a Comment